The Roots Picnic Re-Centers Philly in Black Music

Even by the standards of institutions, the Roots are an institution.

They’re almost exactly ten years out from their final(?) album, …And Then You Shoot Your Cousin, at a spry 33 minutes one of the subtlest and least ambitious (if still locked-in and pretty great) albums they (or any rap outfit) has made; they’re barely on it themselves. I don’t think one of hip-hop’s most consistent and arty quality-control teams suddenly stopped loving the album format they significantly helped advance in their genre. They just took on greater duties. As Jimmy Fallon’s Tonight Show house band, the Roots expanded from performing with every noteworthy rapper to performing with every noteworthy musical guest. Black Thought has made a point of expanding his identity outside of his band, becoming a prolific collaborator with similarly dusty producers of note: 9th Wonder, Salaam Remi, El Michels Affair and, on the wonderful-sounding Cheat Codes, Danger Mouse. He and Questlove have both published a few books between them. Questo directed the Grammys’ 50th anniversary tribute to hip-hop and his outfit has somewhat taken up the job of rap historian and custodian on the world stage.

A big part of that role is, save for the pandemic-stricken era, upholding their annual hometown festival the Roots Picnic for 15 years and running. Even in these festival-smothered times, you don’t get an event like it anywhere else. It started as an idiosyncratic batch of personal faves, where cornerstones of rap (Wu-Tang alumni, Clipse, Danny Brown) split time with top nerds (Dismemberment Plan, tUnE-yArDs, Das Racist). Then it got bigger and the hosts themselves would back increasingly legendary headliners like De La Soul, Erykah Badu, Snoop Dogg, D’Angelo, Usher and Mary J. Blige. The first time I went was 2017, where I caught Noname, Thundercat, Solange, a very dull 21 Savage and a transcendent Pharrell set with the Roots helping him recreate every — and I mean every — hit with his name on it. N.E.R.D., “Hot in Herre,” “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” “Happy,” “Get Lucky,” Justin Timberlake, everything. They even brought out N.O.R.E. to do “Nothin’” and “Superthug.”

This year’s main event could not be resisted: a Roots tribute to New Orleans capped by Lil Wayne, the best rapper alive even sometimes in his new music. (Do not sleep on last year’s epically silly “Tity Boi.”) So crowds descended on the Mann Music Center for one of the most eclectic and ambitious lineups the Picnic has ever curated. For millennial purists, the J. Period “live mixtape” managed to combine Method Man and Redman’s instant-party double act with Common and Black Thought and still worked. A more charismatic Nas crafted a set for his faithful with deep cuts (the James Brown-inflected “Get Down”), sellout fun (“Oochie Wally”) and plenty of Illmatic favorites for its 30th anniversary before Ghostface Killah cameoed for “Verbal Intercourse” and Ghost’s own “Cherchez La Ghost.”

Plenty of times, the attendees seemed too relaxed; from where I was sitting, even Meth and Red didn’t really have the afternoon crowd on their feet (turns out I wasn’t the only one noticing a trend) any more than Floetry’s Marsha Ambrosius, who sang a bit of Usher’s “Nice and Slow” among other pretty-good quiet storms. Cowboy Carter songsmith The-Dream made me happy by opening with “Falsetto” and “Shawty Is the Shit” from his great 2007 debut Love/Hate, but he also seemed to get crickets in return. This cannot be said of Sexyy Red, the hottest current chart-crasher of the weekend, whose brio and team of dancers had a largely female crowd twerking hillside to her why-fix-what-ain’t-broke formula on smashes like “Get It Sexyy,” “SkeeYee” and the inevitable “Pound Town.” All around it was a blessing to visit a sold-out space catering to Black women first and foremost, with local queen Jill Scott headlining Saturday in a city that would bestow her the honor even though her latest actual release turns 10 next year.

That one’s called Woman, and like her other four albums, it’s great. I would’ve appreciated “Golden” or the fonky “Closure,” especially with brass sections in tow, but Jilly from Philly knocked out “A Long Walk” and “Gettin’ in the Way” with a bracing band and brought out Black Thought himself to rock “You Got Me,” the Roots’ biggest hit, that she wrote the hook for. The Badu-sung album version is classic, but Scott’s has more chest in it, deepening its minor-key spookiness into some kind of psych-metal onstage. (You can witness this transformation yourself in Dave Chappelle’s Block Party.) I blinked and missed her bringing out Tierra Whack for one tune, an omen for the more scattershot Sunday.

Missing newly minted country star Shaboozey was my fault for underestimating midday Pride traffic, and I was so transfixed by jazzman Robert Glasper’s hiphop-literate Mahavishnu act that I missed Amerie doing “1 Thing,” one of the all-time greatest songs, with the Backyard Band, who looked fun when I caught their final minutes. (Glasper’s an ivories-torturing madman and his drummer, as polymaths are wont, grounded the airborne at any speed, but most rewardingly at faster ones. He seemed to be playing straight rhythms with one hand and shuffles with the other.) A couple number-one albums have noticeably improved Wale’s stage presence, which was nonexistent when I reviewed a terribly boring show in 2010. Adam Blackstone’s gospel set with Fantasia and Tasha Cobb Leonard was high-powered but didn’t quite absolve me of Sexyy Red’s infectious sins. The one time I managed to find myself a decent seat in advance of a set I was anticipating, Cam’ron turned out to be a no-show. Maybe he hit the HorsePower too hard.

I can’t tell a lie: I loved New Blue Sun and even went to one of the cool one-time-only special IMAX events for it in January. But André 3000’s improvised performance with his ensemble grew less exhilarating than tiring over the 30 minutes I stayed. He squawked a few shrill notes too many on his varying synthesized wind instruments and I admit, the large chunks of the crowd walking out was killing the atmosphere. It just wasn’t the vibe; I wouldn’t have been able to stay focused on Jon Hassell in this context either. I did like when Dre took up mallets to play the xylophone instead. But when he spoke for a charming moment to clarify they wouldn’t be playing any previously conceived material, I bounced.

You never forget a Roots show, and with Trombone Shorty on hand, even Tunechi’s warmup was no exception. My favorite moment was Black Thought rapping furiously over a live brass recreation of M.O.P.’s timeless “Ante Up” beat. I won’t pretend to know who PJ Morton was (Maroon 5’s keyboardist apparently, hmm), and the New Orleans framework of this year’s main event was a little janky. All I know is his competence was delaying the madness of Weezy F. Baby.

Lil Wayne was gracious as ever, repeatedly thanking the crowd, the “people you don’t see” who put this together, crew folks I’m touched he thought of. From the moment he stepped out to “Mr. Carter,” he was a walking great time. The Roots matched his every whim, from old stunners (“Fireman,” “Let That Beat Build”) to surprises (“Drop the World”) to proven pleasers (“Bitches Love Me,” “6 Foot 7 Foot”). He performed literally just the hook from Drake’s “HYFR.” I didn’t hear any NOLA brass during the Wayne portion, so the Picnic’s final set came off a bit like one of those Grammy superjams strung together without much coherence, but that suits an agent of chaos like Lil Wayne. I was hoping that might lead to deeper crate surprises like “I Feel Like Dying” or “I’m Me.” But by the time he took the whole weekend out with “A Milli,” the Best Rapper Alive didn’t O U(s) like two vowels.

The Roots Picnic typically shows rap is alive and thriving. But this edition showed that damn near every type of Black music is alive and well. 

 

VIDEO: Roots Picnic coverage on NBC10 Philadelphia